


Broken

by lyriumlovesong



Series: The Rabbit and The Lion [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood and Injury, Clan Lavellan - Freeform, Dorian is a Good Friend, Dragon Age Quest: Protect Clan Lavellan, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Loss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, Loss, Loss of Parent(s), Military Training, Post-Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 03:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7601452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriumlovesong/pseuds/lyriumlovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an unusually eventful training session, Freya reveals to Cullen what happened at the Battle on the Hill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Before reading this, it will be helpful to have read [Wrath of the Lion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7492407) and [Pockets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7530133).

“Again! You are still much too slow.”  
  
Raising her eyes to the sky, Freya’s small breasts heaved as she fought for breath, lungs searing. She rested one hand on her hip, daggers clutched in her fists.

Heir, the assassin brought to Skyhold to train the Inquisitor, stood in front of her with her arms crossed over her chest. She had a wooden greatsword in one hand and a disapproving look on her face, which was made even more severe by the vallaslin of Andruil that framed her eyes.

“ _Slow?_ ” panted Freya, shaking her head and issuing a humorless laugh from her lips. “I’m the fastest person in this entire fucking keep.”

“After _me_ ,” replied Heir, a taunting edge to her voice. “And until you can beat me, you are still too slow.”

Freya narrowed her eyes at the other elf.

“ _Fine_.”

She twirled her blades in her hands, rocking onto her toes and crouching to pounce.

“Attack!” barked Heir, brandishing the sword and steeling herself for Freya’s advance.

 

 

High above them on the battlements, Cullen was watching the two Dalish women spar, mesmerized by their speed and precision as they clashed. The clatter of wood against metal rang through the courtyard and floated up to him, echoing off the stone.

“Sir,” called a voice from beside him, and he looked up to see his scout approaching with a piece of paper in his hands. “The report on Venatori activity in the west that you requested from Sister Leliana.”  
  
Turning, Cullen held out his hand for the report and muttered his thanks. The scout shifted his eyes down to the courtyard where the Commander had been focused, and he saw the Inquisitor and her trainer dancing and spinning across the grass, their weapons coming together loudly as they struck out at each other and blocked one another’s blows.

“Permission to speak frankly, sir?” he asked the Commander. Cullen looked up and followed the scout’s gaze, nodding. “She’s an incredible fighter. You’re a lucky man.”

The Commander smiled.

“You’re not wrong.”

 

  
  
Down in the courtyard, Heir countered a blow from Freya and pushed her back several feet with the wooden sword.  
  
“Again.”  
  
Freya charged angrily back toward her, opening her mouth to protest with her daggers still at her sides, and the assassin raised the wooden blade, bringing it down hard against Freya’s face. Hot blood immediately poured from the Inquisitor’s nose and pain shot straight up the middle of her skull.  
  
“If you come at me,” Heir said icily, “you do it with _weapons ready_.”

 

  
  
Cullen’s aide looked at him with alarm as they saw the torrent of red streaming from Freya’s face. A faint shadow of anger crossed the Commander’s face, but he stood still and said quietly, “Watch.”

 

  
  
Freya cried out angrily, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and flicking blood onto the grass. Blocking out the pain, she shook her head from side to side, let out a roar, and came after Heir with a vengeance, daggers whizzing through the air and clashing against the wooden sword in a blur. Heir retreated a few steps, taken aback at the fury with which the Inquisitor was attacking her. Freya feinted to one side, then used Heir’s confusion to her advantage as she caught the wooden sword between her blades and yanked it from the assassin’s hands, flinging it away from them. Heir looked down to see a razor-sharp steel point suddenly hovering inches from her throat, and she looked up at Freya with a triumphant smile on her face.  
  
“That’s more like it,” she said breathlessly. “You’re dismissed. We will reconvene after you return from your trip.”

Narrowing her eyes at the assassin, Freya sheathed her daggers, blood still pouring from her nose. She wiped it again and turned, stalking off toward the keep.

 

  
  
Cullen’s scout watched Heir retrieve the wooden practice sword from the grass, then looked up at his Commander.  
  
“She provoked her on _purpose_?” he asked. Cullen nodded, the anger still evident on his face.

“Heir knows that Freya fights best when she can channel her rage into it,” he said, remembering the stories he’d heard of Freya’s merciless treatment of the Red Templar Knight-Commander who’d sliced him open on the hill near Wycome. “I don’t much care for the method, but I can’t deny that it was effective.”  
  
“I’ll say,” breathed the scout, his eyebrows raised.  
  
“If you’ll excuse me, I should probably go fetch Dorian for her.”

“Of course, sir.”

  
_________________________

 

Freya rummaged through her potions and elixirs, one hand over her nose to try to stem the tide of blood that still cascaded over her lips and dripped onto the floor of her quarters. A loud knock sounded from the door downstairs.

“What?” she called angrily, wincing against the pounding pain in her head.

“It’s me,” called Cullen’s muffled voice. “I brought Dorian.”

“Come in.”

She heard the door open and shut, and then a couple of pairs of feet ascended the stone steps. Her fingers closed around the bottle she was looking for. Standing straight, she uncorked it and, without bothering to measure it out, took a huge swig of a faintly blue-tinted liquid.

“You okay?” asked Cullen, walking over to her. She took another large pull from the bottle.

“It’s broken!” she exclaimed, pulling a face as the potion stung her throat. “She fucking _broke_ _my nose_.”

“Here,” Dorian said, approaching her, “let me look.”  
  
The blood was slowing, and the pain in her head was beginning to lessen a bit. She turned to face him, and he gently placed a hand under her chin, tilting it upward. The mage frowned.

“I can fix it, but first I have to reset it or it’ll never be straight again. It’s going to hurt like a bastard.”  
  
Freya shook her head.

“Fucking _great_ ,” she spat, looking murderous. “Whatever. Let’s just get it over with.”

Dorian gripped her chin in one hand and placed his fingers gingerly over the swollen bridge of her nose with the other.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” he told her, looking into her eyes. She met his gaze, bouncing back and forth slightly on the balls of her feet as she readied herself for the pain. Squeezing her eyes tight and gritting her teeth, she nodded. Dorian winced in an expression of sympathy as he said softly, “I’m sorry, Freya.”

A loud cracking sound reverberated through the room as Dorian snapped her nose back into place. She screamed in pain, tears welling up in her eyes as fresh rivulets of blood streamed from her nostrils. Dorian put one arm around her back, squeezing her tightly in a sideways hug as he used his other hand to channel his magic. He muttered a string of words in Tevene under his breath, and Freya felt warmth spreading over her nose as the bone beneath her skin knit itself back together.  Her head spun, and she suddenly felt very weak.  
  
Dorian looked up at Cullen, feeling Freya’s legs starting to give out from under her.

“Catch her!” he called, and Freya felt the Commander’s strong arms around her as she sank. Cradling her against his chest, Cullen watched as the mage finished his healing spell. She closed her eyes, unable to make the ceiling stop turning above her.

“She lost a lot of blood in a short amount of time,” Dorian was saying, his voice muffled through the fog of her fatigue. “Let’s get her into bed.”

She felt herself being carried and then gently laid on top of her covers. Opening her eyes, she slowly turned to Cullen.

“I’m going to kill her,” she told him in a quiet voice.

“I’m not Heir’s biggest fan myself right now,” he said, smoothing her hair.

“You’ll be okay,” Dorian said, wiping his fingers with a handkerchief and handing Freya the bottle of potion. “The blood was mostly stopped before I reset the bone. I don’t know where you learned to make that stuff, but it seems effective.”  
  
“ _Falon’ladarelan_ ,” said Freya, taking the bottle. “‘The Healer’s Friend.’ My mother’s own recipe. Helps stop bleeding and dull pain.” She took another swig.

“I think you’re in good hands here with the Commander,” Dorian told her, squeezing her wrist affectionately as Cullen got up to get water and a towel. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

Cullen gave Dorian a pat on the shoulder, thanking the mage as he headed toward the stairs to leave.

“Room’s still spinning,” Freya muttered quietly, looking up at the canopy above her bed.

“You’ve gone quite pale, too,” said Cullen, dipping the towel into the water to dampen it. He wrung it out and then sat on the edge of the bed, gently wiping the blood from her face and neck. “You’ll be okay in a bit. Just lay still.”  
  
“I can clean myself up,” she said, frowning.

“I know you can. But I’m not about to _let_ you.”

“You have more important things to do, Cullen.”

“More important than _you_?” he asked. “No such thing. Besides, how many times have you taken care of _me_? I think it’s probably my turn.”

They were both quiet for a moment as he cleaned away the last streaks of blood on her skin. He began unfastening her leather armor to remove it, Freya shifting around to allow him to slide it off.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked her as he worked.

“Of course.”

“When we were outside Wycome, and the Knight-Commander wounded me… did you really tell Cassandra not to finish him off? Not to show mercy?”

“Yes,” said Freya, her tone frank and unflinching. She could still remember the way the Red Templar’s purple intestines had spilled out onto the grass, slick and shining in the fading sunlight as his body convulsed, and she recalled without remorse the way his blood had splashed up onto her boot as she’d stepped over him. “Does that bother you?”

“It’s just… out of character for you. You’ve always been merciful in your judgments. And when you fight, you've always aimed to give people quick deaths without suffering.”

“He killed my _mamae_.”  
  
“What?” Cullen asked, looking up, brows furrowed. “How do you know that?”  
  
“After he hurt you, Solas pinned him in place with a spell. As I was walking up to him, he told me he’d killed a woman who looked just like me, a woman with vines tattooed on her face--the vallaslin of Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper, and Goddess of the art of Healing.”

“Your mother.”  
  
Freya nodded.

“Perhaps what I did was wrong in the eyes of your Maker, but I have no regrets. He slaughtered my family and then he tried to take _you_ away from me, as well. His suffering is not even one-tenth of what I feel when I think about my people, what I would have felt if you hadn’t survived.”

“Somehow, Cassandra left that part out.”

“Maybe she didn’t put it together,” Freya said, shrugging. “She just thought he told me he’d killed someone in my clan and I got angry and gutted him.”

Cullen gave her a sorrowful look.

“Are you disappointed in me?” she asked. He shook his head.

“I can’t say in your position what I would have done--if someone had taken my family away from me, or hurt _you_... I don’t pretend to know what you’ve been through. The pain you must feel... it’s just so much anger and sadness for one person to bear.” His hand brushed over the outline of the silver coin under her shirt. “I wish I could just stitch a pocket to my heart and carry some of it for you.”

Freya gave him a small smile, placing a tremoring hand over his.

“You _do_ help me carry it, _ma’nehn_. Every single day.”

Cullen smiled softly back, then leaned over and kissed her forehead. He pulled back, looking into her eyes.

“You’re shaking,” he told her. “When did you eat last?”

“Breakfast,” said Freya. “I got caught up in a bunch of correspondences I needed to finish before I leave for the Exalted Plains, and then I had my training, and I just forgot all about lunch.”

“You lie here and relax,” the Commander said, getting up. “I’m going to go get you some food. They’ve probably got dinner just about finished.”

Freya nodded, and he made to leave.

“Hey, Cullen?” she said, and he turned to look at her. “If you happen to see Heir, punch her in the fucking face for me.”  
  
He gave her a wry laugh as he descended the stairs, and she heard the door open and close as he slipped through it toward the kitchens.

Looking down again at the bottle still clutched in her hand, Freya ran her thumb over the smooth glass. She rolled over and set the potion on her bedside table as a warm tear escaped her eye and trailed down over the bridge of her nose.

“ _Ma serannas, mamae_.”


End file.
